Chapter 28
Unlike the last times,the torture chamber is illuminated enough to see every last splatter of dried blood on the stone floor. It would be easy to rinse it away, but leaving the traces of pain is such an effective way of intimidating the wits out of a victim. I would know; I’ve used that tactic on the Crows who dared hunt Ayna in the woods before she became my wife.
Wife… I shake my head at a word so weak, so pathetic in comparison to what she truly is to me while, from my shoulder, the sensation of the bond is ripping through my chest, my limbs, my entire body until all I can do is pant and gasp.
“A bit early to pass out,” the guard whose name I really don’t care to learn comments. “Usually, he at least pierces you with a tool a few times before you start hyperventilating.”
It’s true. I’ve used the controlled over-oxygenation to escape Katrijanov’s expert skills on the table I’m strapped to. A strategy I learned early in life when my father had deemed cutting me open with a burning knife over and over again the best way to prepare me for stepping into his legacy one day. “You need to understand pain in order to learn what it takes to be a King of Crows,” he used to say when he excused his cruelty.
I wasn’t the only one he hurt. As my cousin and direct heir, Royad shared my fate. The days when we were tied to my father’s table side by side, Royad’s eyes filled with fear, and my heart beat out of my chest when I couldn’t free myself to help him… Those days still haunt my sleep. Those and the moment when I found Ayna in the forest at the feet of the Crows, her human body breaking.
“I wouldn’t miss the fun for the world,” I spit at the guard, baring my bloodied teeth where he hit me in the face, just to show him that, no matter how hard he strikes, I won’t break. I’ll take my time-outs, sneaking into oblivion every now and then, but when I return to consciousness, I’ll grin at them while they try to rip me apart.
Nothing can. Not anymore. Because Ayna is alive and beautiful and needs me. I can feel her very essence in my bones, can hear the echo of her heartbeat in every thump of mine. Even if they shatter this shell, a part of me will remain untouched—and that’s the part that belongs to her.
My soul.
“Spoken like a true fool.” The guard adjusts the strap at my wrist until it cuts into my skin, waiting for a wince I’m not willing to give him. “You should know better than to provoke your tormenter.”
“As if you care.” I spit my blood on his black-and-blue uniform. One of Katrijanov’s men from the Tavrasian military, not a palace guard. I noticed that early on, in this dungeon, guards answer to Katrijanov. The highest Tavrasian general walks in and out of here like it’s his second home. This isn’t a place to make the king’s enemies disappear or to store criminals until their trial or execution. This prison is a place of war.
The guard shrugs and heads for the door, leaving me to my fate the way he always does after securing me to the table so hard I can’t feel my hands and feet after a few moments. Maybe that’s his way of showing mercy. At least, I’ll barely feel the knife on those parts of my body until a lot later, when they toss me back into my cell and I wake up from the unavoidable unconsciousness I drift into when they push beyond my limits.
Thank Shaelak, all those injuries were well hidden when Ayna saw me in the throne room. I couldn’t bear the look on her face if she saw me like this. It was bad enough to witness the pain in her eyes as she assessed the visible injuries, the bruises on my jaw and cheek that are a joke compared to the real injuries.
I close my eyes, readying myself to face Katrijanov with the same cold nonchalance I usually muster, and focus on the sensation of Ayna’s presence through the bond.
It was more potent after she touched her toes to my shin, almost as if that brief physical proximity triggered something in me that I can no longer lock down, but the resonating response I seemed to receive earlier has dulled once more. Whether that’s because she is at the other end of the palace, levels above my cell, or because they gave her the same damned drug that keeps my own powers in check, I can’t tell. I wish I could. That would stop me from musing about the worst possible scenarios—like that they found a way to nullify the bond just like they managed with the magic.
Before I can work myself into a blind panic, footsteps sound far down the corridor. Two pairs—one heavy, one relatively light. And a third pair?—
I blink my eyes as I recognize those footfalls, the measured cadence, the power in each step, the familiar lightness.
“My friend,” Ephegos says as he enters the stone chamber with his signature smile, and I can’t help but feel like a missing part of me has returned. Until I recognize the hatred so well concealed in his gaze and remember all the things he’s done to take his revenge on me for his half-sister’s death. He will stop at nothing to see me suffer.
I know I’m right a moment later when Herinor crosses the threshold, an unconscious Ayna draped over his arms and an apology in his eyes.
Fuck the Guardians. Fuck my father and all the Crows of his generation who angered Vala enough to curse us and drive us from our homelands. If we’d never set foot on Eherean soil, we’d never have ended up in a place where what few Crows I trusted would turn against me because of that curse.
And he wouldn’t carry my mate into this godsdamned torture chamber and set her down on the second table. A table I have never given a thought to since I’ve always been alone in here with whatever cruel masters of pain were working my body to shreds. But in this reality, Herinor puts Ayna’s wrists and ankles in leather straps, her silver-blonde hair spilling over the edge of the metal table as he ties her up. She is in her nightgown, a long, sepia dressing robe tied at the waist covering most of her body. Gods, she looks like they pulled her straight from her bed.
The tattoo on my shoulder is ablaze with awareness even when she’s out cold, her chest rising and falling with slow breaths. Herinor has his hands on my mate, and the urge to rip his throat out is second only to the need to tear the bonds holding me in place and pick her up from that table to carry her to safety.
“Don’t worry, Myron. She’s all right … for now.” Ephegos traces his finger over the rack of tools by the wall, his smile widening.
“Worry? About a human woman?” It’s the only defensive mechanism I can come up with, pretending I don’t care when everyone in this room already knows what she is to me.
Ephegos isn’t stupid. He saw the tattoo on my shoulder, and judging by the way he uses Ayna against me, he must know this is something more than a plain inked mark I got to memorize our curse. He has realized what is going on. Plus, he has Herinor, and Herinor is one of the oldest Crows alive. If anyone knows what Crow bonds look like, it’s him. My tattoo is a fucking mate Mark, and I can’t wait to see what Ayna’s looks like.
Katrijanov? He’s the outsider when it comes to magical relationships one doesn’t get to choose yet can’t live without, but even he knows what’s going on.
“About your mate,” he corrects, stalking past my table, not sparing me a glance as he heads straight for Ayna, the sword in his hand ready to spear me if I should ever make it out of my leather shackles. That he might be readying it to hurt Ayna is an option I can’t allow myself to consider.
“Tell me, Myron.” Ephegos pulls a handkerchief from his sepia finery—the traitor—wiping the blood from the edge of the table and pockets it before he perches beside my hip. “What is it like to die for love? Must be a redeeming end.”
I spit at him.
“I see you still haven’t forgiven me. Good.” He flashes his teeth, that hint of insanity shining through. “Because I haven’t forgiven you either. But even more important than that…” He wipes my spit from his sleeve on my bare arm. “You are one of the strongest magical creatures out there and a great measure against the effectiveness of the serum we developed.”
I try to follow him, but he pulls a syringe from the pocket of his jacket and holds it needle-up in front of his face.
“Is that the drug you keep giving us?” I wish Royad, Silas, and Astorian were here. Together, we might be strong enough to take on the traitor Crow and the general. Even Herinor, who doesn’t look like he intends to fight if I manage to free myself. He doesn’t look like he is ready to help me either.
“This is a new one.” Pride shines in Ephegos’s eyes as he makes the transparent liquid swirl in the body of the syringe. “I call it the deep sleep … for your magic, of course, not for you. I want you wide awake while we test your mate’s limits.”
Every fiber in my body rears up, straining against the weak leather restraining me. Weak—but I’m weaker. Weeks of being drugged and tortured haven’t helped my general condition.
With a curse, I slump on the table, seething at Ephegos if there is nothing else I can do.
“I don’t know how much more your body can take, Myron.” He looks me over with that fake pity he’s perfected, and I know that, this time, there is no escape. I can hyperventilate as much as I want. This time, I need to stay alert because, much as I’d love to tell myself that there’s a way out of this, Ayna is right there, and I can’t close my eyes when they are setting my mate up to suffer.
Ephegos has come to see me break. He has brought the only weapon that might actually be able to accomplish the task. And she’s more beautiful than I even remember—beautiful and oblivious.
“Touch her and I’ll rip your fucking head off.”
Katrijanov has the nerve to laugh while Ephegos lowers the needle to my forearm and pricks my skin. His smile widens into a manic grimace as he injects me with the deep sleep.
This time, I don’t pass out from the drug. I am wide awake, my magic retreating even farther behind the curtain that keeps it concealed, and I’m powerless as Katrijanov sheathes his sword and pulls the thin blade from the tool rack.
He doesn’t heat it up the way he does before he cuts into my skin but pulls up Ayna’s sleeve and sets the tip to her bare forearm.
“No.” My voice is faster than my thoughts, but I don’t care. The leather bites into my skin as I fight against my restraints. “Don’t touch her.”
Herinor has stepped back, his gaze meeting mine with the same helplessness I feel. He isn’t here because he enjoys seeing me suffer. I don’t have the capacity to figure out what else would make him turn against me; the single drop of blood welling up on Ayna’s pale skin is enough to drown out all other thoughts.
Crimson and perfectly round like a polished crystal, it sits as Katrijanov pulls back the knife. He flashes me a challenging look, an invitation to try to stop him.
I’m fucking aware that, as long as I’m strapped to the table, there’s nothing I can do. At least, Ayna isn’t awake to feel the prick. But I am. I am fully awake, my blood pounding through my veins as I pick up the scent of hers—iron and salt and the wind of the ocean. Suddenly, it’s all I can smell. My senses rush back to me as if the curtain has been lifted, and I can hear Ayna’s slow heartbeat, her shallow breathing, can make out the floral scent of her soap like a thread of life in this chamber of pain and death.
I only notice that Ephegos injected me with another serum when he pulls the needle out and steps away from the table. “Now you have all your fae sense and none of the options to act on them. Let’s see how you enjoy that.” He turns to Katrijanov with a nod, letting his words sink in.
All my fae senses?—
The bright room is suddenly brighter, the colors more facetted. I can hear the footsteps in the hallways above, the low chatter of voices outside the dungeon. Royad and Astorian are talking to Silas about their suspicion that I might not return this time—they heard the guards talk…
I need to close my eyes as every detail hits me at once, but none of them are as hypnotizing as the scent of Ayna’s blood. It lures me like the flame does the moth, tearing my focus back toward her—not that it ever truly left.
I can taste her on my tongue, feel her in my chest. Her skin is warm, radiating through the room with that same magnetic pull as her blood. I need to touch her. Gods, do I need to touch her.
“It’s working.” Katrijanov’s voice is a hum in the background even when I can hear everything in clearest detail. Ayna’s presence drowns out everything else—so does the Syringe Ephegos lowers over the crook of her elbow, shooting me a cruel smile.
“Let’s see how he does when she’s awake.” He injects her with the second serum and waves Katrijanov over.
The general lowers the blade to her skin just as Ayna’s eyes fly open.